I Concentrate on You
by Gallathea
Summary: When Sookie Stackhouse is framed for a crime she didn't commit, she turns to private investigator Eric Northman for help finding the true culprit. A tale of murder, intrigue, betrayal, and romance set in Chicago in the 1940s. AH/AU/OOC.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The basic theme for this story grew out of a conversation with some of the ladies over on the Northman's All-You-Can-Eat Buffet thread while we were discussing new scenarios in which we wanted to see our favorite Viking vampire. Several of us expressed enthusiasm for the idea of "Northman Noir," a film noir storytelling style adapted for the SVM fic world. What follows is my own all-human, alt-universe take on the concept of '40s-style mystery, intrigue, romance, and betrayal. There might be a group noir project coming up, as well—we were kicking around the idea of having multiple writers contribute individual chapters to a group fic. Feel free to stop by the thread if you're interested in participating (or if you just want to say hello)! _

_I don't own the characters from the Southern Vampire Mysteries, so suing me would just be mean. _

_Many thanks to FDM, who's been giving me feedback on my ideas for this story since I started outlining it, and who has helped a great deal with this chapter as my beta!_

_

* * *

_

_Chicago, January 1948_

I spend a lot of time watching people. I don't do it because I like it. I do it because people pay me to. Sometimes, I watch for them because they need to know what I'll find out. Sometimes, they already know what I'll find out, and they just need me to show them. They pay good dough for this, because I'm good at what I do.

The name's Northman, Eric Northman, and I'm a freelance private investigator.

People think it's a glamorous job. People are usually wrong. When I work with corporations, it's usually to look for missing money or missing property. I can spot a cooked book faster than Betty Crocker can whip up a cake. When security is a concern, I check out potential employees, weeding out bad apples before they can be added to the payroll. When I work with law enforcement, I might look for missing witnesses, help gather evidence, assist with case preparation—find the story in a sea of documents, the missing puzzle piece in a locker full of boxes.

I prefer working those jobs to taking on private clients, but I do both, because I go where the money is. Emotions run higher in the private sector, and there's nothing like a weeping client to put a damper on a perfectly good air of professional detachment. I'll find your missing, drugged-out son; I'll take pictures of your adulterous husband with his mistress—but I won't stick around to offer a shoulder to cry on when you don't like what I show you. You're the one who has to decide whether to cut the threads loose or sew the tattered remnants of your life back together. I'll be in my office filling out the paperwork.

And there is a lot of paperwork. Pam, my secretary, spends half her work day organizing, labeling, and storing the stuff. I prefer to be out in the field, but even then, it's a waiting game much of the time. I lurk. I see without being seen, which isn't easy when you're six-foot-four. I take pictures, make notes. And I do this in Chicago, where the weather basically has two settings: too damned hot and too damned cold.

No, it's not glamorous. Not that there aren't certain advantages to letting people think it is. Tell a woman—who's already interested, or she wouldn't have struck up a conversation in the first place—that you're an ex Marine Corps officer who's now working as a private dick, and you're halfway home. What can I say? I'm not a monk, and I do like to have a good time. After a while, though, women always want more than a good time. They get sick of the odd hours I keep. They want a ring on their finger, a set of slippers near the bed, and plans for the future that involve grandkids and stuffed turkeys at Thanksgiving. When one of my relationships gets to that point—the point when the girl is too attached to the idea of a life I'm just not interested in leading with her—one or the other of us has to break things off. One of the smarter ones whispered, after she packed her bag full of odds and ends she'd been leaving at my apartment, "I wanted to be with you, but you weren't ever really with me. We were alone together." She kissed my cheek and shut the door softly behind her.

I told you she was smart.

But really, it was for the best. When I came back from the war, I took this job because it suits me. I like spending most of my working hours alone, not having to pretend to make pleasant chit-chat or give cheerful reports about my weekend activities at the office on Mondays. I could have joined the police force or found myself a gig as a desk jockey, but I like being my own boss.

Spending most of your time unraveling the schemes of thieves, cheats, frauds, and embezzlers doesn't give you the highest opinion of people in general. You learn to spot character flaws; you figure out people's games. It's enough to turn a confirmed optimistic into a cynic, and I was never a Pollyanna to begin with.

Still, part of what keeps this game worthwhile is the fact that while it isn't pretty, it does get interesting—sometimes real interesting. Every once in a while, someone makes you work hard to stay ahead of them, and the stakes can get high. Every once in a while, someone you thought you'd already sized up can surprise you, shake up your assumptions.

That's what happened last summer when a woman walked into my office with what seemed like an open-and-shut case. Sophie-Anne Leclerq was a wealthy art dealer in town; she had her own gallery and regularly bought and sold high-end pieces for a handsome profit. I guessed she needed help with a missing piece, maybe even with some research on a competitor.

Even wise men can be wrong.

* * *

_Chicago, June 1947_

My intercom buzzed as I was finishing up some research on a missing-persons case: a mother had come in convinced her daughter had been kidnapped, but the daughter had merely eloped with a guy she'd met at a jazz club she had "most assuredly never visited," according to the mom. The girl was happy. Her parents weren't. That's how it goes.

Pam sounded a little crackly and nasal through the machine. Her voice was nothing like that in person, but modern machinery is about convenience, not verisimilitude. "Mr. Northman, a woman is here to see you. Are you available to take a walk-in?"

"Send her in, Miss Ravenscroft."

I knew my new potential client by name, but we'd never actually met. Given her business interests, it wasn't surprising I knew a little bit about her—she moved numerous valuables in and out of the city of Chicago—but I was struck by the air of confidence she projected despite her less-than-imposing package. She was tiny, maybe five-two, and had one of those faces that made her look younger than she actually was.

Pam had already offered her a drink, which she had declined. We exchanged the standard introductory pleasantries, and I lit her cigarette for her and pulled out another for myself before offering her a seat.

_Rule number one_: don't talk too much. Even a seemingly simple question can influence the way a potential client tells you about a case. Pay attention to the way they frame the story; the details they leave out are often as telling as the ones they choose to reveal.

"I assume you know who I am by reputation?" I nodded that I did. "Then you probably think I'm here to discuss my business; you have done some work for some of my associates. They mentioned that you were efficient, thorough, and discreet." I gestured to her with my hand, silently asking her to continue.

"I'm actually not here on a business matter, Mr. Northman. You know of my husband, Andre?"

_Rule number two_: never look surprised. But yes, I knew of Andre Leclerq: an import from France, he was one of those enterprising types who seemed to have a hand in every jar. Rumor had it that his family owned vineyards back in Europe, and he milked that for all it was worth in Chicago social circles, though some guessed he just wasn't cut out for a provincial sort of lifestyle. Most people thought that he and Sophie-Anne had made a surprisingly good match in marrying each other—or they at least looked good together. People put stock in those kinds of things.

"I am increasingly concerned, Mr. Northman, that my husband has found himself a mistress. You can see why your reputation for discretion was a factor when I chose to come to you?" She took one final, long drag off her cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray on my desk.

"Of course, Mrs. Leclerq. What kind of assistance from me do you seek, precisely?"

"I want proof. I'd like you to observe Andre, report to me on what he does and where he does it, and provide me with any photographic evidence you manage to procure of his activities with this mistress. If he's jeopardizing my business interests or our social reputation, I'm sure you understand how that could cause enormous problems for me."

She paused. "And, naturally, I'm very upset at the idea that he has a… woman on the side," she added.

Remember rule number one? _Pay attention to the way they frame the story_. Mrs. Leclerq had come in for what I had thought was help with asset management, because on a basic level, that encompasses most of what I do: I help people protect what is theirs, and when someone takes what is theirs, I help them find it. Funny how even a standard infidelity job could be about asset management, too. Not that her interest couldn't be both business-related and personal—but she had let me know her main concern with her opener.

I agreed to spy on Sophie-Anne Leclerq's possibly-adulterous husband for her. She didn't seem to know exactly who was commanding so much of Andre's attention these days, but she did note that he was spending more time than usual at the Edgington, a high-end hotel with a nightclub just off the lobby. Andre worked at the Edgington as a promoter part of the time, so his presence there made sense, but any change in a pattern of behavior can be noteworthy, so I was sure I'd be making a visit there some time soon.

After doing prep work for the case, I found myself trailing Andre from his house to the nightclub three nights later. In recent years, the Edgington had grown in popularity as a night-time destination for the well-off and the adventurous. Management had made a particular effort to bring in a variety of cutting-edge musical talent. Many of the more famous jazz musicians had long ago left Chicago for New York, which gave the Windy City a bit of a reputation as a place where good jazz _used_ to happen. The staff at the Edgington was working hard to bring in the strong acts, entice out-of-towners for occasional appearances, and, of course, to build its own set of in-house performers to bring in the regulars.

As I slipped into the club that night, ordering a single-malt Scotch on the rocks and carrying it with me to an unobtrusive location at a nook to the right-hand side of the room, one of these performers took the stage. She was a blue-eyed blond wearing a gunmetal grey dress that hugged her body in all the right spots. The dress wrapped around her chest to create a plunging neckline, made a bit more modest with a simple ruffle between her breasts that drew the eye higher. The fabric gathered in a ruche around her waist and then exposed a long, full skirt under which I could faintly trace the curve of her hips. She was stunning.

The announcer cheerfully informed the crowd that she was a new acquisition for the Edgington, a performer who had moved to the Midwest all the way from Louisiana, and then turned Miss Sookie Stackhouse over to the crowd. She already had my attention, but when the pianist had completed his opening riff and she began to sing into the microphone, I was utterly transfixed.

_You won't be satisfied until you break my heart  
You're never satisfied until the teardrops start  
I tried to shower you with lovin' kisses  
But all I ever get from you is naggin' & braggin',  
my poor heart is saggin'_

Her voice wrapped around me like a silken cord, binding me in place, compelling me to look at her: and there was the intent to compel in my own gaze. It occurred to me that if I stared at her hard enough to count her eyelashes, I could somehow get her to look back at me, make eye contact, show her that I knew exactly what to do with a beautiful woman whose song had caressed its way from my ears to my chest, and lower.

She had her act down. Alternately demure and seductive, she stroked the side of the piano like a lover, smiling at the patrons whose faces weren't hidden in shadows with a playful glint in her eyes. I hardly noticed when a barely-legal customer placed her hand on my knee and asked if she could join me; I don't think I even answered her.

I forced myself to focus on the task at hand about halfway through her set. I had already noticed Andre at a table near the front of the room, and he seemed every bit as bound by the Louisiana belle's spell as I had been. Most of the men in the room did. It wasn't until she completed her performance that I saw Andre approach her, place his hand on her lower back, and whisper something into her ear—she smiled in response and gave him a small nod—that I realized she was the mistress I had been hired to find. She slipped off to her dressing room with Andre following in the same direction a couple of well-timed minutes later.

_Rule number three_: Never get personally involved with clients, and never, ever get involved with the subjects of your investigation. You're there to observe and report, and to ask questions when necessary. You don't go home angry about the fact that Sookie Stackhouse, singer at the Edgington, had probably been to bed with Andre Leclerq that same night. You don't resent the fact that the next day, you'd have to get up and follow them so that you'd have photographic evidence of their relationship. You certainly don't find yourself in bed trying to remember exactly how the subject of an investigation sounded as she chided an imaginary lover for his cruelty.

But that's exactly what I did.

TBC

* * *

Ha ha, yes, my Sookie in this story can sing, even though Charlaine Harris's Sookie apparently can't carry a tune in a bucket. Noir Sookie doesn't tan, so I figure it's a trade-off. I figured Private Investigator Eric for a man who enjoys his Scotch. What should be Sookie's drink of choice?


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I still don't own anything except my house, my car, some furniture, and a boatload of books. Please don't sue me, Charlaine Harris. You probably don't want a twelve year-old Volvo, anyway. I should get a new car, but this one is paid off, and it's good for schlepping the dogs around, even if the air conditioning system was designed by people who have obviously never experienced a Texas summer. _

_For those of you who've been asking me about "Sookie Rolls a Hordie," I haven't forgotten about that story, even though it seems like I haven't updated since the year 1463. I'll even go on public record here by promising that I will have a new chapter of that fic up before next weekend. May plagues of locusts and swarms of undead warlocks descend upon me if I fail to meet my self-imposed deadline. _

_Thanks once again to FDM for her beta help! _

_

* * *

  
_

_Chicago, June 1947_

Six days into my investigation of Andre Leclerq and his extramarital excursions, I had learned several things about Sophie-Anne Leclerq's husband, and none of them were flattering. When I said he seemed to have a hand in every jar, I was right. He made stops at places that made sense—other nightclubs, talent agents' offices, advertising joints—but a few of his visits raised red flags for me. Twice, he had been to a diner that doubled as a high-end gambling club for Mafiosi and rich kids who wanted to trade aces with the big boys. Once, he'd had a two-hour meeting at the Drake with an Irish brother-and-sister duo who were apparently in Chicago for business. Twice, he had visited the home of an older woman named Thalia Delacroix, who had no connections I could discern either to Mr. or Mrs. Leclerq's respective lines of work.

The man was shadier than a North Carolina plantation porch.

The only thing I could find wrong with Miss Stackhouse, on the other hand, was that she was running around with Leclerq. I learned that she had two smiles, one for when she was nervous and another for when she was happy. I learned that she was quick-witted, with a surprising sense of humor. I learned that she had struck up a friendship with the doorman at her apartment building, a slow-witted but benevolent fellow she called Bubba. She was always trying to get him to sing with her, and I couldn't help but smile when she coaxed him into an impromptu performance of "I Remember You" right there on Michigan Avenue. Andre tapped his foot and said they were going to be late for dinner. I followed them, of course. She ordered a medium-rare rib-eye with sides of mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus, and I found the corners of my mouth turning up again; I always did like a girl who wasn't afraid to eat.

So, yes, I had assembled a good deal of information. What I hadn't done was produce incontrovertible evidence of infidelity. The movies make you think that when a spouse is cheating on you, a private investigator will go to any lengths to prove it, whether that means breaking into your house to plant bugs in your bedroom or perching on your balcony while we take photos through your window.

Look, here's how it really is: I'm not going to break the law to prove that your wife has made you a cuckold. I'm not going to get myself arrested so that you can buy the soundtrack to your spouse's affair or the scrapbook illustrating every _petite mort_. Not only do I have no interest in doing that, but you don't want me to do anything illegal, either. I'm gathering evidence you could very well bring into court, and judges don't take kindly to violations of the Fourth Amendment.

What we actually do is work to establish inclination and opportunity. In layman's terms, that means we show that first, the couple wanted to have sex, and second, that they had a chance to. If I can get pictures of two people kissing and then renting a seedy motel room, that's inclination and opportunity. If I can get a copy of the receipt for the hotel room, all the better. Establishing a pattern is good. Beyond that, unless two people I'm watching do me the favor of balling on a park bench or in a taxi cab, there's not much I can do. Scratch that: there are plenty of things I _could_ do, but I won't put myself at legal risk in that way, not for a client.

I had more than enough evidence of Andre's inclination with regards to Miss Stackhouse. I had been back at the Edgington twice since my first visit, and I saw the way he looked at her. I saw the way he held her when they danced. I watched when he whispered things in her ear that made her blush and laugh. I watched one night as he trailed his fingertips down her neck, grazing the side of her breast lightly as his hand made its way toward her hip—and I also saw that when she turned away from him, heading towards her dressing room, he smiled at one of his buddies and shot him a wink, jerking his head in the direction of Miss Stackhouse's retreating form.

Yes, the bastard actually winked. I wanted to wipe the smirk off his face with my fist, multiple times. Damn it all to hell.

So, no, I wasn't having any problem documenting evidence of inclination. I was having a harder time with opportunity. For all their flirting and apparent familiarity with each other, Andre and Miss Stackhouse simply hadn't been alone together long enough for anything more than a few stolen kisses to have occurred. Not since I'd been on the job, in any case. That changed on Thursday night after Sookie's performance at the Edgington. Andre dropped Sookie off at her apartment, looking hopeful as he kissed her good night, ignoring Bubba's baleful glare (maybe the simpleton was smarter than he looked if he got his hackles up at the sight of Leclerq). He asked her a question, and she looked into his eyes for a moment before nodding. They entered the building together, and Andre came out by himself an hour and a half later.

So much for no opportunity.

* * *

"You like this one," Pam noted as we processed my photos from the last week in our darkroom. I had discovered early on that maintaining my own darkroom was a good investment: sending photos out for processing left confidentiality loopholes, and I wasn't inclined to entrust sensitive information to strangers.

"I don't know what you mean, Pam," I lied. Of course I knew what Pam meant. Pam and I had known each other since we were barely out of diapers. In front of clients, we were "Mr. Northman" and "Miss Ravenscroft," but we dropped the formality whenever it was just us. We had even tried dating for a while when we were younger, but it was a disaster—really, I think we were probably just too much alike for romance to be in the cards—but we had surprisingly little trouble picking up the mantle of our friendship where we had left off. Besides, Pam liked a little more variety in the bedroom than I, as a male, was capable of giving her without assistance from a member of the fairer sex.

"This one," she insisted, pointing at one of the photos of Sookie Stackhouse that hung from a clip on a drying line.

"What makes you think that?" I asked. Pam was insightful, but I'd done my damnedest to keep my thoughts about the singer to myself.

"Look at the angles you're using to get these shots, Eric. You're positioning the lens to catch her in the frame even more prominently than you're photographing Andre. I've been looking at your photos for years, my friend. You focus on interactions, on touches, on crucial exchanges that help shore up the story you're telling with the pictures. While you're doing what you need to do on this case, you're also doing more. Look at her face here," she said, pointing. "You've got her with just the right lighting, with that brilliant smile on her face, and you've blocked out Andre entirely. You know you can't use this photo. I think you just wanted it."

I let out a low murmur of warning, but my secretary and long-time friend continued. "And what possible excuse can you have for this one, Eric?" She gestured to a photo I had taken of Miss Stackhouse as she bent down to pet a dog one of her neighbors had been walking. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were cataloging her… assets," she teased.

"She's easy on the eyes," I allowed. "But that's all she is. And she's involved with a married man, one who seems like more of a scumbag with every passing day."

Pam was silent for a few minutes as she perused the photos. I was almost ready to pack it in for the night when she spoke again.

"She doesn't know."

"What doesn't she know?"

"She doesn't know Andre is married. Look," she said, tapping a photo in which Andre was reaching out to pay for a round of drinks, "no ring." She moved on to another picture. "No ring." She then looked at a third, clearly taken on a different day, but her observations were astute: it seemed Andre removed his wedding ring whenever he knew was going to be in Miss Stackhouse's presence.

"How could she possibly not know?" I nearly growled, my hands involuntarily balling into fists. "Andre's one of the more prominent businessmen in town. He and his wife end up in the social section of the newspaper at least once a month. Everybody at the Edgington would know; somebody would have said something."

"Not if they wanted to keep their jobs," Pam pointed out. "He could buy and sell every one of them a hundred times over. Besides, you said she's still new in town, and I checked the file. She's from some backwater town in Louisiana, Eric. I'm sure she didn't arrive in the Midwest with an exhaustive knowledge of the major players in Chicago social circles."

I crumpled one of the photos in my hand and tossed it at the wall. Pam was right. Damn it, Pam was right. Moreover, she had easily caught a detail I had missed, which was an unforgivable oversight on my part. Sookie Stackhouse had quite unknowingly thrown me off my game, and I couldn't decide whether I was angrier with Andre for deceiving her or with myself for allowing a blind spot.

"You could just let her know," Pam offered, brightly. I looked at her as though she'd just suggested that we join some sort of communist sect and pledge our first-born children to The Cause.

"Just what are you proposing, Pamela? That I toss a paying job out the window so I can remove Miss Stackhouse from Leclerq's clutches? That I just walk up to her, introduce myself, and let her know her boyfriend is married to one of the richest art dealers in Chicago? If that got out, I'd never work again in this town, not to mention the fact that bringing someone that kind of news doesn't tend to endear you to them."

"Eric, Eric… I know you're mad you missed the ring detail, but give yourself a little credit. You're a clever man. I'm sure you can come up with an inventive solution to this little dilemma. And with that, I'm on my way out for the evening. I have a date with a sexy librarian," she announced smugly, giving me a little hug. "Don't let your imagination run too wild with that scenario—not that it would, since you are so very obviously preoccupied." With that, Pam turned on her heel and began gathering her belongings.

As I sorted through the files to be examined on my desk, I found an unexpected addition to the pile of documents on my desk: a copy of Sophie-Anne and Andre's marriage certificate, along with a note from Pam. "Thought you might want this," it read. "You never know when it could come in handy. –P." I shook my head at my secretary's brazenness, folded the document, and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

Later that night, I sat in the Edgington sipping on yet another single malt Scotch and smoking what was perhaps my fifth or sixth cigarette since my arrival. I had intentionally arrived just after the end of Sookie Stackhouse's set, reasoning that she and Andre couldn't exactly do anything I needed to document while she was on stage. I wanted to hear her; I wanted nothing more than to hear her. But this was work, not pleasure, and I forced myself to use my vantage point to good advantage while I kept an eye on the table Andre occupied.

Sure enough, Sookie emerged from her dressing room about fifteen minutes later. She moved to join Andre at his spot in the club, and I noticed with some bitterness that Andre was pulling out all the stops that night. He had ordered a bottle of champagne for the two of them, handed her a red rose as he caressed her face, and then he pulled out a small box from his pocket that looked like… oh, God, he couldn't possibly be…

"You a cop?" The face behind the question was rugged and chiseled, with a look that suggested he'd been around the block a time or two. I had marked him as club security on my second visit. Security guards are easy to spot even when they're trying to blend in: they just don't look at crowds the same way regular people do. They scan. They evaluate potential disturbances. They are trained to assess threats and nip problems in the bud before they ever become "situations." The fact that I hadn't slipped past this guard's radar spoke well of his skills in his chosen profession.

The man was bald, not a style that was in fashion at the moment, but he actually wore it fairly well. He was slightly taller than I was, and he probably had a good fifty pounds on me. I didn't often come across people who were bigger than I was. The man was clearly no stranger to heavy lifting.

"Not a cop," I returned coolly, taking another sip of my drink.

"We don't want any trouble here, you understand?"

"I'm not here to cause trouble, Mister…" I already knew his name, because I do my homework, and I had identified the two regular security goons at the club as John Quinn and Alcide Herveaux, but I pretended to be none the wiser.

"Quinn. John Quinn."

"Eric Northman," I responded, reaching out my hand to shake his. My eyes returned to the scene at Andre and Sookie's table, where she was stroking his face earnestly with tears in her eyes.

"You here to watch her, Eric Northman? I know you're a professional. I won't believe you if you say otherwise."

I met his eyes with an icy gaze. I knew he wasn't bluffing, but I meant it when I said I didn't want trouble. At the same time, I also knew this guard could gum things up for me if I didn't make it clear that I was going to stay out of his way. "Not her," I told him.

"Andre, then," he said with a clipped nod. "Good." He then shifted his gaze towards the couple. "She's a nice girl. My hands are tied. But yours aren't, are they? You can get out of here and nobody will be the wiser."

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to look as menacing as possible without attracting attention from additional pairs of eyes. "And why would I do that, Mr. Quinn?"

"Because nobody else can, Mr. Northman." He stared at me for a moment. "I'll take my leave. You have a pleasant evening," he said, bending his head once in my direction before heading back to his usual stomping ground.

My gaze once again was drawn back to Sookie and Andre. He had both of her hands in one of his, and he was laying it on thick. I saw him remove the piece of jewelry he had bought for her from its box, and as he started slipping the ring on her finger, I nearly snapped. What I wanted to do was stride over to the table and beat him to a bloody pulp. What I should have done was nothing.

What I actually did, after waiting for a while to make sure Quinn wasn't watching, was pull out the marriage license Pam had so conveniently placed on my desk earlier in the day. I pulled out a pen to write a message to Sookie, but reconsidered at the last moment and changed the pen to my left hand, knowing it would be disastrous for me if my own handwriting were traced to such a document.

I quickly penned the note, waited for Andre to leave, shot another look in Quinn's direction, called over a young woman, and handed her a five dollar bill. "Drop this in front of her," I instructed, knowing I had just done something I could never undo. I watched the girl as she put the document in front of Sookie. I watched Sookie's eyes widen as her gaze darted from person to person at the club, trying to figure out who could be responsible for such a message. Unfortunately, I also saw the eyes of the second security guard at the Edgington, Alcide Herveaux, meet mine as I proceeded to make my exit.

With that, I cut and ran. I had more than enough evidence to hand over to Sophie-Anne Leclerq, and I had let myself be drawn into this way too far for comfort. I had broken one of my most important rules of engagement. Something about Miss Sookie Stackhouse was clearly anathema to my principles of good sense and professionalism. I couldn't bring myself to be sorry I had warned her away from Andre, but I'd taken a big risk at the Edgington, and I couldn't make it a habit to put my own neck on the line that way. I was done. I was going back to business as usual.

And that would have been the end of it if I hadn't gotten a call from Cal Myers down at the police station two weeks later.

"I understand you were on cheat detail for Andre Leclerq a few weeks back, Northman."

"You know I don't discuss my cases, Cal."

"You'll discuss this one. Leclerq's widow pointed us to you."

"His widow? Leclerq is dead?"

"Mrs. Leclerq found his body this morning," he confirmed. "Shot twice in the chest and once in the head. Somebody didn't want to leave room for doubt about his status as a breather. We've got a bird in here for questioning, the blond you were tailing with the dead guy."

I carefully tried to keep my voice as neutral as possible. "Got anything on her?"

"Not yet, but she's a person of interest. Could you gather up your files and come on over?"

And that's how I found myself at the police station on a sweltering day in early July, with photos of Sookie Stackhouse and Andre Leclerq tucked into my briefcase. I wasn't looking forward to this part. I wasn't looking forward to it at all.

* * *

_Whew! That chapter ended up being longer than I anticipated it would be. I thought about cutting it off a little earlier, but isn't it better than Andre is dead right now instead of at the beginning of Chapter 3? I sure think so. I like Andre best when he's dead. _

_Also, in case you were wondering: the name of the Edgington is part homage to Russell Edgington (I've always liked him as a character) and part U2 joke. Hey, don't look at me like that. I could have named the hotel "The Bono Temps." See? I have _some_ restraint. _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I still don't own these characters, but if someone had the keen marketing sense to make Eric and Sookie action figures, I'd buy 'em. _

_Thank you very much to FDM for the amazing beta work! You're a huge help! _

**************

_Chicago, July 1947_

I arrived at the police station at around two in the afternoon, and was soon met by Chief Myers; the plan was for him to review my file on Miss Stackhouse before handing over the information to the two officers who were currently questioning her. He led me to a small area just off the interrogation room, where I could see Miss Stackhouse, obviously distressed, through a large pane of one-way glass.

She was a mess. The detectives grilling her, who I recognized as Bud Dearborn and Andy Bellefleur, clearly had not been holding back; the puffiness in the singer's eyes revealed that she had been crying, and she clutched a handkerchief so tightly between her hands that, were I closer, I had no doubt I would have been able to see the whites of her fingernails. Her chin trembled periodically, causing her lower lip to quiver, and I felt a momentary impulse to go to her, to cup her face in my hands, to brush my lips along the trails her tears had left on her cheeks…

Which was, of course, impossible. And ridiculous. I forced myself to look away and give my full attention to Chief Myers, who was thumbing through the file I had handed him and murmuring appreciatively.

"Your observation of her lasted how long?" the Chief asked.

"About a week."

"When did it conclude?"

"Two weeks ago today."

"And you found the information Mrs. Leclerq sought?"

I answered carefully. "It would appear that the documentation I delivered met her expectations."

"Good, good… anything else we should know about this one? Drugs? Habit of hitting the bottle a little hard? Other boyfriends?"

I knew exactly where he was going with that. When cops bring in a person of interest, whether or not that person has been made a formal suspect, they want to know every weakness, every chink in the target's armor. In the early stages, that knowledge provides emotional leverage: if you can get a suspect to behave emotionally, you can get them to reveal details they wouldn't reveal if they were thinking rationally. In later stages, it's useful to paint the most unflattering portrait possible of someone you're trying to convict: jury members, judges, public citizens—all tend to be swayed when a defendant is shown to have a propensity for vice.

With some relief, I stated truthfully that I knew of no particular infirmities of character in Miss Stackhouse.

"Other than the fact that she ran around with a married man and probably shot him down in cold blood, Northman?" The bastard was trying to get me to draw conclusions about a crime, when the only details I had were that Andre had been found in the morning by his wife, and that he'd been shot three times.

"Miss Stackhouse appeared to be unaware of Mr. Leclerq's marital status over the course of my investigation," I replied. "And you know damn well that I don't have enough information about the circumstances of Leclerq's death to tell you that I have an opinion on the subject."

Chief Myers didn't seem to notice the thinly-veiled reproach in my words. "Maybe I was just curious about what you thought," he said. "You've got experience and instincts on your side; you know we always value your opinion here when we bring you in."

"You value my opinion because I only give it to you when I've had the opportunity to formulate a sound one, Cal. I doubt you'd give it as much weight if I were in the habit of shooting my mouth off without ammunition."

"True enough," he chuckled, and then his demeanor grew thoughtful. "So the broad was being straight when she told Bud and Andy that she didn't know Leclerq was hitched, was she? She said she broke things off with him after someone let it slip at the bar where she sings."

It would be bad—real bad—for me if the Chief figured out I was the one who had been responsible for giving her that information, but as far as I knew, Miss Stackhouse was aware only that a customer had slipped her a piece of paper. It took every ounce of self-control I had to keep myself from glancing back at her through the pane of glass that separated us. Instead, I kept my face carefully composed as I answered the Chief. "That's consistent with what I saw, though I wasn't aware she had broken up with him."

"Word is that she and Leclerq had a big blowout at the Edgington. One of the regular performers and two of the bartenders said they made a hell of a scene. If she really had just found out he'd been lying to her, that fits," he said. "We wouldn't be hurting for a motive, that's for certain."

I shrugged noncommittally just as there was a knock at the door, followed quickly by Bud Dearborn and Andy Bellefleur's entrance. They nodded at me briefly before reporting that they weren't getting anywhere with Miss Stackhouse, and moreover, she was growing impatient.

"She's got a flimsy alibi, but her story isn't changing. We don't actually have anything concrete on her, Chief," complained Bud.

"Don't let that worry you just yet, Dearborn. We have more than you think."

If he supposed that the file I'd brought him would do the trick, he was barking up the wrong tree. I wondered what he was getting at; surely he wasn't withholding evidence from the detectives who were assigned to her.

"Chief, if she wants to leave, we have to let her go unless we charge her," added Bellefleur.

"She'll stay a little longer when she sees what the investigator here brought us," the Chief answered with no small degree of smugness.

"I'll take my leave, then," I said, standing up and shaking hands with the officers. I had done what I needed to do, and the last time I had wanted to leave a police station this badly, I was the one being interrogated. The last place I wanted to be when Andy and Bud tossed my photos of Leclerq and Miss Stackhouse in her face was right here, with her in the next room. I had seen the look of shock and pain on her face when she learned Andre was duping her, and I didn't want to be around when the cops tried to throw her off with my own pictures of her smiling with the manipulative son of a bitch.

Had she been angry enough to kill him? Well, like I told Chief Myers, in the absence of a full set of facts, I'm not in the habit of making under-informed conjectures. I knew I'd seen people commit violent crimes for less; Cal was right when he said nobody would have a hard time buying that Miss Stackhouse had a believable motive. I had a hard time believing that the same woman who sang a duet with a doorman on the street could also gun a man down, but the fact is, everyone has a limit. Push someone far enough and they'll let you know, one way or another, when you've come up against it. Push someone hard enough and they'll eventually push back.

Though I preferred to think otherwise, I had to admit there was a real possibility that Sookie Stackhouse had pushed back—and pushed hard.

**************

Pam gave me a wide berth when I came into the office the next morning, unshaven and looking like I'd probably seen the bottom of one too many cups. I hadn't, but I had slept worse than a cat at the dog pound. My secretary somehow seemed to know that I didn't want to talk, but I did appreciate the fact that she silently refilled my coffee mug whenever it was dangerously close to being empty.

It had been so quiet, in fact, that I literally jumped out of my chair when the intercom version of Pam's voice blasted into my office with all the subtlety of a brass band in a library. I stared at the infernal machine for a few seconds before I realized I'd drawn my sidearm and was aiming at it.

Pam probably wouldn't appreciate it if I killed the intercom. Maybe I needed to lay off the caffeine.

"Mr. Northman," she repeated. "There's a Miss Sookie Stackhouse here to see you," she announced. "Are you available?"

I allowed myself a brief moment of panic in my surprise. "Does she have an appointment?" I knew, of course, that she didn't have an appointment, but it was the first thing I could think of to say. Pam would never make a rookie mistake like failing to inform me that the subject of a former investigation wanted a sit-down, and even now, she was attempting to give me an out by feigning ignorance of Miss Stackhouse's status with our little operation.

Curiosity soon won out over confusion, and I composed myself as I asked Pam to show the lady in.

Miss Stackhouse entered my office with a determined set to her shoulders. Her hair was swept into a flawless chignon, and the state of her clothing—a smart, tailored navy suit with a white, flared butterfly lapel—betrayed nothing of her state of disquiet. I had to read those clues instead in the slight furrow of her brow, and in the barely perceptible tremble of her hands.

I stood up to show her to a seat in front of my desk. I realized that I had never been this close to her before, and while I silently waited for her to tell me why she had come, I found myself attempting to figure out which perfume she was wearing. It was lovely but subtle on her—a light, feminine fragrance that didn't overwhelm the senses like some of the more popular brands—and I didn't recognize it, which in itself intrigued me. There was a hint of vanilla, with a slight citrus note…I thought I detected jasmine, maybe even magnolia…

"I know you know who I am," she said simply.

Enough thinking about how she smelled. "And how did you come by that information?" I returned. I knew that she would know a private investigator had been tailing her for a time when the police showed her the photos I had taken, but it was highly unlikely that the cops had pointed her my way.

"Quinn was keeping an eye on you," she replied. "He's been very—well, he was worried. He marked you at the club on more than one occasion, and he saw you leave something for me through a customer one night that obviously made me upset." She opened her handbag and slid the marriage license, with my hastily-scrawled note, across my desk.

"If Quinn was that worried about you, Miss Stackhouse, why did he not take the trouble to inform you of Mr. Leclerq's marital status himself?"

Her eyes flashed defensively. "I'm not sure it's possible to underestimate the scope of Andre's influence in the circles where Quinn and I find our employ, Mr. Northman. Chicago is a big city, but our particular professional community is actually quite small, in some ways."

"Be more plain: did Leclerq threaten Quinn?"

"Quinn implied that he did," she said, taking a moment to fiddle with the clasp on her purse. "But he did not say so directly."

She fell quiet again, and I waited for her to break the silence, but prompted her when she seemed disinclined to say more. "And what is your purpose here today, Miss Stackhouse?"

She took a deep breath and looked me in the eyes. "I want to hire you, Mr. Northman. I want to hire you to find out who murdered Andre."

She had surprised me for the second time today. This was madness, utter madness. Even I'd never had a client who was a likely suspect in a homicide ask me to find the victim's killer—and truthfully, it was a terrible idea. Cops don't like it when you crash their party and dance on their toes.

"If you yourself did not commit the murder," I pointed out, "there should be little reason for you to take such extraordinary measures. Evidence trails lead to criminals, not to the innocent."

"I was home alone, with no one to vouch for me, at the time of the murder. The police seem to think my history with Andre is proof enough of my culpability. I might not be exceptionally worldly, but I do know enough to be aware that our country's justice system, while great, nevertheless remains subject to the prejudices of men."

"Again, Miss Stackhouse, I must ask you to be more plain."

She sighed. "Detective Dearborn is overworked and seems quite convinced of my guilt, Detective Bellefleur's style of interrogation leaves me with serious doubts about the quality of his attention to detail, and Chief Myers openly gloated that he would enjoy seeing me excoriated in the press and sent to the electric chair."

No wonder she was scared. It wasn't unusual for cops to push hard in interrogations, but Cal had crossed a line with that taunt. Still, if she had nothing to tell, they had nothing to find out. "Police use techniques they know will throw people off," I informed her. "They frighten you so that you'll talk, but it's more sound than fury."

"I don't think so," she said, letting an air of desperation creep into her voice. "There's something else going on here—something more—and I need your help to figure it out."

"Why me?"

She responded simply. "Your note. You delivered unwelcome news, and as acts of kindness go, yours did not feel particularly kind at the time. However, I needed to know. I wish the truth had been less painful, but... I needed to know. I understand that such a decision on your part could not have been made lightly, as it put you at no small risk of discovery, but I sincerely hope that whatever spark of compassion compelled you to warn me against Andre will also move you to assist me now."

"_Spark of compassion."_ I hoped Pam never heard about that one; she'd never let me live it down. She'd start appealing to my innate sense of empathy to wrangle longer lunch breaks and addressing my yearly Christmas cards to "Sparky Northman."

Pushing that thought aside, I considered Miss Stackhouse—now my potential client—with care. "Did you kill him?" I asked bluntly.

"No!" she exclaimed, as though she was shocked that I could even entertain the possibility.

"What's the 'something more'?" She was still recovering from my previous question, and it took her a moment to understand that I was referring to her prior claim. "You said there was something else going on, and if I am going to consider taking your case, I need to know what it is."

She looked at me, and then nodded as if she'd made a decision. "There is one other thing I know of," she said. "But I can't talk to you about that here. It's something I must show you."

"And where is this thing you need to show me?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"It's at my apartment," she replied tentatively.

I regarded her intently. "This is highly irregular, Miss Stackhouse."

"I _know_. I know… just—please?" she implored, standing up quickly as though her momentum would carry me out of my own office.

"_We have more than you think,"_ Cal had said to his detectives. I had thought it was strange then, and I thought it was strange now, but that only made me wonder what game the Chief could be playing, here. Going to her apartment under these circumstances was a risk, a big risk. At the same time, I always did like the times when this job actually got interesting, and there was no denying it was interesting now.

And then, too… I couldn't deny that part of me just wanted to hear her out. I wanted to know what she had to say, and see what she had to show me.

I didn't believe in much in this ridiculous world, but I wanted to believe in her.

_TBC_

**************

_Random trivia: in 1942, actor Errol Flynn--in a commitment to perversity that extended to household design decisions--apparently had one-way glass installed in his house so he could watch his guests have sex, unbeknownst to them. Creepy? Sure. But that little tidbit about one-way glass (a tip from FDM) was what convinced me that it could very well have been used in the interrogation room in this chapter. _

_Also, I've added some links to photos in my profile of '40s actors who I think fit these parts. Feel free to check them out!_


End file.
